


Guro Challenge: 30 Stories of Pain, Horror, and Awkward Boners at Inopportune Moments [We're Looking at You, Dirk]

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amputation, Appendicitis, Bad Jokes, Because Bro's a Goddamn Loser, Bees, Blindfolds, Blood, Body Horror, Body Modification, Bugs & Insects, Chucklevoodoos, Coming In Pants, Cyborgs, Death, Decapitation, Ear Piercings, Fear, Hal is not a Doctor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Masturbation, Mind Control, Mind Rape, Mouth Sewn Shut, Multi, Muzzles, Organs, Orgasm, Pain, Post-Game, Prosthesis, Rape/Non-con Elements, Skeletons, Stitches, Stream of Consciousness, Surgery, Tattoos, Tears, This is just gonna get worse from here people, Vomiting, alternative sex, robo-legs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-07-15 13:05:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1: Amputation, Davesprite/Hal<br/>2. Decapitation, Dirk/His Own Gross Kinks<br/>3. Piercing/Bodymods, Bro/Grandpa<br/>4. Masks/Covered Mouth/Covered Eyes, Kankri and Karkat<br/>5. Surgery, Dirk Jake and Hal<br/>6. Stitches, Kurloz/Cronus<br/>7. Sollux/...Bees?<br/>8. Cyborg, Equius/Tavros</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Davesprite/Hal: Amputation

**Author's Note:**

> yeah decided to do the guro challenge. mind the title, it's accurate.
> 
> there is prrrrrrobably going to be little to no editing done for this. tags will be added with each consecutive fic

When it’s all over, the Game rips you apart. 

 

You’d always expected to dissolve into code, to disappear into the ether, your purpose done, your goals achieved; you’d never expected to live past the final battle, but somehow you had, and now you think the Game is punishing you for your transgressions. 

 

Because you aren’t supposed to exist. You aren’t supposed to be alive; no one was ever supposed to throw themselves into the kernelsprite, no living human was ever meant to bond with the pure energy, the pure knowledge that came with the Sprite label, but you’ve never really been the kind of person to do what you’re supposed to do. So you exist, but you shouldn’t, but you  _ do _ , and when you pass through that door you can feel yourself changing. 

 

But matter cannot be created or destroyed. The world operates on a series of equivalent exchanges, one thing for another, and matter cannot be created or destroyed, only moved from place to place. 

 

Feathers fade from skin and fiery pain burns through your limbs, your tail cleaved in half by a knife made of code and suffering; agony races through every last follicle as your entire being changes from one form to another, from one  _ species _ to another, and  _ matter cannot be created or destroyed only moved from place to place _ -

 

You cannot be destroyed, but that’s no consolation when the pain makes you wish you were dead. 

 

Reformation is like coming home, familiar and soothing, but the Game can’t just leave it at that; what you were missing as a sprite you must also lose as a human, because physics is a bitch and fate likes to use you like single-ply toilet paper. You only get a short break before your body begins to burn again. 

 

You can  _ feel _ it, slow and splitting, like something’s got a hook in your hand and is pulling, pulling, pulling an inch at a time; tendons separate, bone dislocates, muscle snaps like stretched rubber bands as the Game takes your arm from you a bit at a time, breaking each bone as it works its way up from your fingertips.  _ Snap _ , and a piece of you dissolves.  _ Snap _ , and a part of you falls away into the void.  _ Snap _ , and agony like lightning hits you hard, and you’re screaming even though you can’t hear a thing. 

 

_ Why _ , you beg, writhing against bonds you can’t see in the inky darkness of the fading Game’s skewed programming,  _ Why why why why- _

 

You never get an answer. 

 

Just the feel of invisible hands crawling up your arm, snapping and breaking and tugging your limb away piece by piece, stripping your strength from you as you gurgle and twist and choke on your own tongue; you can’t tell if your face is wet with tears or drool or blood or vomit but you know that you’re definitely crying- how could you not be?

 

_ Please _ , you gasp, soundless, breathless, fingers closing over the remains of your ruined arm,  _ Please _ , and you’re laying on grass, sun bright in your eyes. 

 

There’s blood everywhere, staining bright green red, and you twist and scream and cry out and there are hands on your shoulders, holding you down as someone  _ touches you tries to break more of you away tries to reduce you to nothing but snapped bone and broken ligaments _ \- 

 

“Breathe,” and the voice is familiar and it hurts and  _ it hurts _ , “Breathe, Davesprite. Breathe.”

 

And there’s bloody hands on your face, cupping your cheeks, and you stare into eyes as red as yours are orange and the face is familiar even if you’re sure you’ve never seen it; pasty white with eyelashes so pale they’re practically see-through, spindly fingers petting your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead. 

 

“Breathe.”

 

The agony fades, and someone keeps crying, saying  _ sorry, I’m sorry I can’t fix it _ and it hurts so much you feel like dying but Hal holds you tight and keeps you awake.  Hal’s hands are warm against your face, Hal’s eyes are boring into your own, it’s Hal who’s telling you  _ breathe, Davesprite, breathe _ and it’s all you can do to obey. 

 

Someone is still crying and you wonder if the high, thin sound is coming from you. You wonder if that inhuman cry of agony is coming from your lips, because Hal is still shushing you, petting the tears from your face and reminding you to  _ breathe, Davesprite _ , his hands gentle as they slide down your face and over your shoulders, your shoulders--

 

You wrench your head down to look and you almost throw up. Your arm is  _ gone _ , gone from just a few inches under the shoulder joint, raw and red and there’s still blood coating your skin but the wound is closed off, sealed. Hal tries to tilt your face away but you can’t help but stare, reaching out with your other hand and touching the stump, and it feels so odd because for a moment you swear you can clench your fist and twist your elbow and move your limb but you can’t because it’s  _ gone _ . 

 

Matter cannot be created or destroyed, only moved from place to place. You were missing a wing, so of course the Game would take something equivalent from you, just to make up the difference. 

 

Jane’s hands are heavy on your back, your chest, her fingertips glowing with Health and Life but she can’t make you a new arm, she can only repair the damage done while tearing it from your body, keeping you from bleeding out. 

 

You wonder if it’s worth it. 


	2. Dirk/His Own Sick Fantasies: Decapitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, Dirk. Stop popping boners at inopportune moments. Just- stop.

You can’t deny you’re excited. 

 

It’s wrong and stupid and disgusting but you’re  _ excited _ , panting , the sharp press of Lord Jack’s crowbar harsh against your sore throat; everything hurts,  _ everything hurts _ but Dave is looking at you and you  _ know _ there isn’t another way. You’re thinking it through over and over, thoughts racing around like little rats on wheels inside your spinning head but this is it. This is the end. 

 

You’re glad you were right; you always assumed you’d die in a blaze of glory, and how much more glorious can you get, losing your head so your bro can take out two powerful enemies at once?

 

It’s just- you can’t say you thought you would have had more time, because honestly you should have died years ago, you thought you would have died years ago, you just… wish you didn’t have to do this to Dave. And you wish you weren’t so fucking turned on by it. 

 

Your hips shift, and Lord Jack tightens his grip on your throat, Slick tightening his grip on  _ his _ throat in turn; you can hardly breathe, each gasp rattling in your chest, but you’re still  _ fucking hard holy shit _ . 

 

It’s the kind of boner you get during battle, that mix of adrenaline and serotonin, body firing on all cylinders as you fight your prey-reflexes and kick ass; it’s the kind of boner you get through physical exertion, and that’s what you keep telling yourself even as you thank every non-existent god in this shithole of a Game that your stupid godtier pajamas are baggy as hell. Because you’re trapped, about to die, seconds away from getting your head lopped off by the younger iteration of the brother you’ve idolized your entire life, and  _ you’re stiffer than a fucking board _ . 

 

It was like this with the sendificator, too- you knew you had to do it, there was no other choice, no other way, you had to in order to save them and your session but there was still that  _ excitement _ , that- that sick thrill that made your gut tingle and your pants grow tight. You’d been scared- terrified, even- but you’d still done it and you’d still  _ enjoyed it _ like the sick little fuck you are. 

 

Now is no different, except… except this is just. This is heroic, and you won’t be coming back from this. 

 

Dave stares at you in abject horror and you feel so, so bad for making him do this, for making him kill you like this, but you know there’s no other way. You nod. 

 

You can see the subtle shift in him, the way his hands tighten around the hilt of his sword, the way his shoulders straighten, back arches, and then he nods back and you know this is it. There’s no turning back; you can’t yell at him to stop, you can’t yell at all- you don’t have enough air. Your head is spinning and there’s a feeling in your gut building like the few times you’d managed to touch yourself, intense and erotic and  _ wrong _ ; you grit your teeth and Lord Jack’s crowbar digs in deep, your chest fluttering as you try to get a deeper gasp of breath. 

 

_ Do it _ , and there’s a silent understanding between you. You’re sorry. He knows you’re sorry. You know he’s sorry, but he doesn’t have to be. This is probably going to be the best you’ve ever felt. 

 

It all happens so fast you wish you were a prince of time, just so you could go back and slow it down and really  _ feel _ it. You let your sword fall back, the dull side of the blade pressed against your shoulder, and Lord Jack’s crowbar digs in deep, something in your trachea crunching under the pressure of his grip. The pain only lasts for a few seconds, the helpless breathlessness just a bit longer; Dave’s sword- glinting, glossy Caledfwlch- slices through your throat and the spray of blood is startling, but the burst of absolute, all consuming pleasure-pain is even more so. 

 

You’d heard that a decapitated head can hold onto its awareness for several seconds after removal, but with your skull jammed in the senificator box, you hadn’t noticed anything but black; this time, eyes wide, you can see the flashing colours of Lord Jack’s head, you can see your body slump, you can see the way your frame twitches and shudders in orgasm and you can feel the aftereffects of lingering pleasure, the dopamine rush blocking out the horror that is  _ I am dying I am dead. _

 

Dave’s hands close around your cheeks, his body curling around you, uncaring of the blood; the last thing you can consciously remember thinking is  _ dear god don’t let him see the jizz all over your pants _ . 

  
  



	3. Bro/Grandpa: Piercing/Bodymods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I ship it so hard tbh. Bro gets a new earring [and also an orgasm]

Braig Harley’s breath is hot against your throat, and you think your heart might be three beats from exploding. 

 

You’d always assumed the man was a bit of a punk; you’re not blind, you can see the old, faded scars from piercings and the telltale hints of ink along his collarbones, the edges of sun-weathered tattoos poking out from his sleeves- always rolled up to the elbow, of course. You can see the way he smirks, the chip in his canine from a hit to the face with a fist laden with heavy rings or brass knuckles, maybe, and you can hear it in the smug, rolling tone that only comes from a man who’s lugging around a pair of steel balls the size of a small car. Braig Harley was a punk if you’d ever seen one, you’d just assumed, incorrectly, that his rebellion had been past tense. 

 

It wasn’t, it isn’t, and he’s got you up trapped, broad body curled over yours and breath hot against your throat; Braig Harley, world renowned nature documentarian, the man, the myth, the legend himself, is pinning you to the wall and sliding huge hands up your narrow waist, calloused palms catching over your own scars in  _ just _ the right way to make you shudder. 

 

You’re not even sure how this happened. One second you were discussing your pasts, your desires, your hopes- you’d mentioned you’d always wanted an earring but had never been able to afford putting one in. Next thing you know, he has you pressed to a wall and he’s laughing against your throat, whiskers scraping at your chin as he murmurs  _ I can help with that _ and you’re melting against him, already fumbling with that garishly green tie he wears because  _ my granddaughter picked it out for me and how could I possibly say no? _

 

Harley’s granddaughter is as old as your younger brother and something in you balks at the age difference, but there’s something _about_ that age difference that makes you shudder and arch against him as he slides your shirt up and up and over your messy hair, the smirk on his lips, the _knowing_ way he glances at you making your breath stutter in your chest. Harley is a man of experience, of all kinds of experiences, both worldly and sexual, and you’re no slouch in the sex department despite your age but you know he’s got you outgunned on this one.  He’s got skill, and patience, and experience on his side, knowledge and how to utilize that knowledge blending together into the perfect graze of his fingertips against your chest, up your collar, over your throat to touch your ear, the perfect press of his big hand against your waist, the perfect way his leg slides between yours.

 

“Tell me, Mr Strider,” he says, all playful formality, that crooked smirk lighting up his bearded face and making you want to  _ kiss him silent _ , “Were you thinking of a lobe piercing, or perhaps cartilage? I can tell you through experience that cartilage is certainly less comfortable, but you don’t seem like the kind of man too bothered by pain.”

 

He  _ pinches _ each part of your ear as he nonchalantly discusses shoving needles through your body like it  _ ain’t no thing _ and his knee is slowly grinding up between your legs and  _ he’s a piece of shit is what he is _ . Your hands grip his forearms, and you suck in a breathless little gasp, shaking your head to throw him off your goddamn ear. 

 

Immediately, your body feels cold where he’s no longer touching it. 

 

“Hey man, I read up on that crap, I saw the pictures of all those people with their nasty infections and their sepsis an shit,” you mumble, and he rolls his eyes at you- this goddamn grandpa rolls his fuckin’ eyes at you behind his little square reading glasses and you want to punch him in the face. 

 

With your mouth. And your tongue, and your teeth. While plastering the rest of your body against him, but right now what you really want is to rip off his shirt and maybe trace whatever tattoos he’s got with your tongue.

 

“All you need is a bit of whiskey and a candle,” he says, tsking as he reaches up and runs his fingers through your hair; you’re three seconds from leaning into his touch like an affection-starved dog, panting against him and begging for more, but you resist. You are Ambrose Strider, tough and brave and strong, and a little hair petting will not make you melt like an ice cream cone in the Texas heat. Not even a little. Instead you square your shoulders and tilt your head up and scowl, and he pinches your ear again, laughing quietly.

 

“Trust me,” and the deep bass rumble of his chest is  _ unfairly arousing _ and yeah, you have a boner. What else is new. 

 

“Trust you to gimme fuckin’ tetanus-”

 

“ _ Trust me _ ,” he repeats, cupping your cheek in one big hand, and you can’t help but fall silent, your protests quieted by his gentle touch. 

 

“...Fine, but if I catch some weird infection an’ die, you’re the one who has to adopt Davey,” and your fate is sealed, the contract signed, the devil in his eyes lighting up as he grips you by the back of the neck and guides you down to the floor. 

 

He straddles you. One of his legs is almost as thick as both of your own, and you’ve never felt more inadequate as you have trapped beneath his absolute bear of a man. Like this, you realize how fucking  _ massive _ he really is, in the way his six-five stature just doesn’t seem when you’re both upright and he’s smiling like a gentleman, collar buttoned and tie done up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Like this, you realize how big he is, how broad his hands are as they ghost over your chest, how intimidatingly wide his shoulders are as he looms over you; you reach out, but he pins your wrists by your head, knees digging into the floor on either side of your waist. 

 

“Ah-ah,” he murmurs, and that low, rumbling tone goes straight to your goddamn dick, “You wouldn’t want to distract me now, would you?”

 

You most decidedly do  _ not _ but at the same time you don’t know what to do with your hands, you don’t know how to react; you can’t just lay here like a goddamn corpse, how would that be fair? It isn’t fair, and everything you’ve ever learned about sex demands that you  _ reciprocate _ somehow, but he just tsks at you every time you try to move until you lay limp under him because he’s a fucking weirdo and that’s apparently what he wants. It’s enough to make you twitch with nerves because this isn’t the position you usually take, you’re usually the one on top of things and now you’re not and it’s  _ weird _ , but then his hands are working at the buttons of his own shirt and you’re struck speechless. 

 

Because you’d known Braig Harley was a goddamn punk but  _ hot damn _ . You’d assumed he had a few tattoos, one on his collar and another around his upper arm- just a band of something maybe, that peeked out from under his rolled up sleeves, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. Braig Harley is  _ covered _ in tattoos, from his elbows to his throat and down past the hem of his belted pants, in all manner of styles and colours and shapes. The sheer number of them is astonishing, and despite his earlier tsking you can’t help but reach out to trace a massive shipwreck over his collar, and the simple, small list of names written underneath it. 

 

“Holy shit,” is all that comes out, because yeah, you have tattoos, but nothing like  _ this _ ; all you have is, cheesily enough, Dave’s birthdate written on your chest, over your heart, and an arrangement of yarrow, oleander, and eucalyptus blossoms over the expanse of your shoulder, rendered in full colour. Nothing like the ancient, swirling designs of traditional Japanese  _ Irezumi _ blending with Maori swirls and straight edge lines, intricate patterns melting into the odd, collage-style German trash polka. New Americana decorates the backs of his hand, mixing seamlessly with hieroglyphs and geometric Mindanao designs; his body reads like a love letter to the places he’s been, and you can’t help the way your breath catches in your throat as you caress the faded ink decorating his burly frame.

 

You still want to trace every last line with your tongue. 

 

“Lay back, Mr Strider,” he says, licking his lips as he guides you back down to the floor, settling enough weight on you that you know you aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, “Trust me, this will be easier for the both of us if you’re already down.”

 

You’re so busy tracing the intricate designs spiralling up his shoulder with your eyes that you don’t even notice him fumbling with the pockets of his pants, not until something  _ clicks _ in your ear and makes you jolt; Harley is holding a safety pin over the flame of a lighter, and for a sudden, bizarre moment you think  _ he can’t seriously intend to stab you with that thing _ , except, uh. Yeah he does. He actually does intend to stab you with that thing and you might be low-key panicking just a bit especially since he’s pulled out a flask and  _ he’s slathering fucking whiskey on your ear like it’s antiseptic _ . 

 

You swallow roughly and he laughs a deep, rolling laugh, lips leaning in to press against your forehead. 

 

“Don’t I get an ice-cube or somethin’?” and you’ll never admit it but your voice cracks a bit, and you’re breathing fast in anticipation of pain and  _ oh hi boner nice of you to pop up again _ . 

 

“Strider, back in my day we were lucky if we had a lighter to sterilize with, much less an ‘ice cube’,” he says in response, clicking his tongue at you like he means to say  _ what a goddamn wuss _ , “Take a deep breath for me, dear.”

 

You’re tensed up in anticipation but you aren’t expecting his hips to grind down against yours, or his lips to collide with your own in a harsh kiss; his tongue slides against yours, over your teeth and into your mouth as your hands twine around his shoulders, fingers digging into his back as you clutch at him. He kisses you like kissing is the only thing that matters, and he stabs the pin through your ear. 

 

Pain isn’t a new sensation to you. You know pain, you’ve experienced pain, you just- weren’t expecting it to hurt  _ that much _ . Because it does hurt- it feels like your ear is on fire, and you yelp against his mouth, hips jerking up as your nails scratch over his back. It’s like time slows down; you can feel the cool, wet metal slide through your skin, piercing the thin layer of cartilage in your ear, stabbing through you as easily as a knife through butter. He just laughs against your lips and kisses you harder, and he’s grinding against you and you can feel the heavy heat of his hardness through the fabric of his stupid khakis, and you can’t help but think  _ would his cock just fucking **impale** you like the pin did _ \- 

 

...In seconds, you’re coming in your pants like a teenager, gasping out the most goddamn pitiful noise you’ve ever made in your entire life. You dig your nails into his skin and cling to him as you cry out, jerking your hips up and trembling against his broad frame as your ear burns, a splash of whiskey over the wound making you shudder and gasp and whine. It feels like it takes you years to catch your breath, years to stop shaking yourself apart, and he just eases you through it, his lips gentle against your burning ear, his hips rutting against yours smooth and slow. 

 

Once again, it occurs to you that you are not doing your part; you reach down, pressing one shaky hand against his crotch, and he just  _ fucking tsks at you again _ , pinning your wrists down and kissing you hard enough to leave you limp, dazed, and breathless. 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists, and you sputter and protest and tug at his grip but he keeps you pinned so easily that your oversensitive cock twitches again and you have to stop, whining as you shove uselessly at his chest. The big, dumb brute.

 

“We should probably take proper care of that,” he murmurs, pressing gentle kisses to the overheated, throbbing flesh of your pierced ear, “As much as I like to talk big, I did use antiseptic.”

 

You scowl at him, open your mouth- but before you can begin to yell, he presses a kiss to your lips, quieting you as he lifts you up into his arms. 

 

“Let’s get you an ice pack and some painkillers, my boy,” he says, and you just let your chin fall to rest on his shoulder and grumble quietly, closing your eyes as he carries you away.


	4. Karkat and Kankri: Masks/Covered Eyes/Covered Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is no resolution.

It’s one thing to have a stupid goddamn fuckstick for a dancestor, but it’s another thing when said stupid goddamn fuckstick goes missing for days  _ right when you really need him _ . 

 

The scowl on your face is deeper than the lines on your forehead and even Kurloz sidesteps out of the way when you stomp down the dumb path in the middle of the dumb dreambubble that hosts all the dumb copies of all your dumb dancestors. Everything is dumb. Fuck it all, you wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t  _ have _ to be but you really need that advice because as dumb as Kankri is he’s not fucking  _ braindead _ and sometimes he tells you things that could actually be considered poignant, three days down the road once you’re not willing to just strangle him for existing. 

 

His hive is just as stupid as you remember it, a tiny little white hiveblock with a bright red door; funny how he doesn’t consider how  _ that _ colour could be ‘triggering’ in any way, even with the rest of his stupid-ass histrionics. Said door gets shoved open hard enough to bang against the opposite wall, but-- 

 

No one’s home. 

 

Not entirely unusual, because Kankri is well known for being a fucking creeper and stalking the shit out of people while reading them the Riot Act: Trigger Edition, but- you’d already checked everywhere else he could possibly be,  _ and _ Porrim said he was home.

 

If he had been, he’d already be screaming at you for nearly breaking his door down, but she’d insisted, so you step in anyways, peering around the living room and wincing because  _ holy shit it’s a fucking disaster _ . 

 

Kankri’s never really been big on messes; you know, you’ve had to deal with him talking his fool head off about you not using a goddamn coaster the last few times you visited. So the things thrown all over the room, the shattered glass, the torn up books- it looks like a fucking tornado went through the place, and it’s utterly ridiculous. Idly, you find yourself picking things up as you walk deeper into the disaster zone- a shattered vase, a torn up notebook, a ripped blanket… Parts of Kankri’s precious sweater. 

 

You frown. 

 

So far you’ve yet to see any sign of blood but that doesn’t mean he’s not injured. People like you, like him-- you both become very good at hiding signs of blood when you do happen to spill it. Your gut is still screaming  _ this isn’t right this isn’t right _ and something about how heavy the air is suddenly makes it hard to breathe; you pick up a few more things, set them down next to the overturned coffee table, and head upstairs. 

 

You should have just left when you had the chance. 

 

The deeper you go, the more you realize that Kankri could not have done this himself; things are flipped that his little noodle limbs would have never been able to move, photo frames shattered that he shouldn’t have been able to reach. Unless he suddenly developed the ability to increase his strength times ten and leap halfway up a wall, you’re dealing with a number of assailants, all of whom have fled the scene, though hopefully not with your dickwad of a dancestor. God knows that hostage situation would not end well for anyone involved.

 

Still, you’re starting to become more and more alarmed the longer you go without finding Kankri; you might not be too fond of the chatty little idiot but he’s still your dancestor, and when you say he’s yours you mean he’s  _ yours _ , which clearly means if anyone else fucks with him you’re obligated to kick some ass.  _ You _ are the only one responsible for teasing and tormenting him, and  _ you _ are the only one allowed to wreck his stuff. It’s a rule. 

 

After another few minutes of digging through the wreckage of Kankri’s hive, you realize why the place has been unnerving you so fucking much; it’s completely silent.

 

You don’t think you’ve ever heard Kankri’s hive in silence before, because he’s always been there and he’s always been awake, and that meant he was always talking; the dude never fucking shuts up, just keeps droning on and on till even the sound of his voice just becomes a comforting background murmur as you distract yourself with whatever he’s got lying on the coffeetable while you’re there. But now, there’s nothing; not his voice, not the sound of turning pages, not the click-clicking of keyboard keys as he types out another ridiculous dictation- nothing. It’s just… quiet. He better not be fucking dead.

 

The scowl on your face would be enough to terrify the Grand Fucking Highblood himself, you’re sure; you shove a broken bookshelf to the side and pause, because there’s a tiny little cupboard door you’re positive you’ve never seen before and the feeling of  _ wrongness _ you get from it is so strong it makes you tremble. The last thing you want to do is open that door. The last thing you want to do is  _ look _ at that door; your hands shake as you touch it, and your palm burns because it’s  _ freezing cold _ . 

 

It’s a memory projection, you can tell that much from the way it flickers a bit as your living [if sleeping] fingers brush over it, and the only thing you can do is dread what on earth could have made Kankri dream up something this completely and utterly  _ not right _ . You shiver. The door shivers in response to your shivering and before you can lose courage [or freak yourself out so much you wake up] you wrench open the tiny cupboard. 

 

You somehow knew you’d find Kankri inside but that still doesn’t prepare you for the sight of him. 

 

He’s- small. Too small. His memory projection is all wrong and your chest hurts because _this isn’t right_ , and all you can see is his back but you can tell even from that that he’s not- the same. He’s not okay. He doesn’t respond to the flood of light but you can see his little sides rise and fall, so at least you know he’s alive. He looks about the size of a three sweep old, maybe younger; you hesitate, then reach out and touch him, brush your fingers over his spine. He wrenches away from you, head whirling around and-

 

God, his  _ face _ . 

 

He can’t see you. He can’t see anything; there’s a thick silver band around his eyes, molded to his tiny face, with a matching muzzle pressed against his mouth and you can see his skin reddening where the metal digs in, where the straps are too tight, his poor ears squished under thick leather and his head just- entirely covered,  _ god _ \-- You can hear the panicked whistling of his breath as he gasps through his nose, head turning this way and that, one hand flailed out to touch the wall, to keep himself grounded. 

 

“Kankri,” you say, and his head swivels towards you, his little chest stuttering as he reaches out; you take his hand in your own and give him a light tug, just enough to pull him from the corner of the tiny cupboard and straight into your arms. 

 

He’s so  _ small _ and he’s defenseless and that’s not okay; he’s been silenced, muted, his senses taken and his frame reduced to a childlike state from fear and panic and god, you are going to  _ murder _ whoever did this to Kankri- as soon as you get the other troll back to normal.  One of your big hands takes up a good three quarters of his skinny back and your teeth grind as you work your jaw, doing your best not to burst out into curses because Kankri is  _ helpless _ and the last thing he needs is to deal with your righteous goddamn fury. No, he needs a gentle touch, a soft voice, and the tone that comes out of your mouth is practically unrecognizable for all its rarity.

 

“Kankri, hey. Hey, just- breathe slow, okay? In and out, slow and deep. Don’t panic, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere so calm down, just calm down...”

 

Easier said than done, you know that, he knows that, but it’s vital; the last thing you want Kankri to do is panic when his mouth is covered and his nose is half-blocked by the stupid, shiny silver mask, inlaid with pretty gemstones like it’s some kind of jewelry piece. You think it’s disgusting; you want to tear it off. 

 

Unfortunately, it’s so tight around Kankri’s mouth you don’t know /how/ to tear it off, not without injuring him, which is a thing you definitely do not want to do. It’s so tight you can see little cuts on his face from it, and his ears are red and rubbed half raw where they’re trapped by the leather straps. The- blindfold thing, that’s just as bad; you tug at it and he recoils, though his hands never let go  of your shirt.

 

You feel sick. 

 

His age keeps fluctuating. One minute he’ll be three, then he’ll blur back up to eight, then down to two sweeps old; it’s like he can’t remember how old he is, or what time he’s supposed to be in and that freaks  _ you _ out just as much as he’s freaking out. You reach up and cup his face, stroking over the little sliver of skin on the bridge of his nose that’s still exposed to air, and he melts against you, trembling. 

 

“I’ll get this shit off, okay?” you say, voice low and raspy with your efforts to keep it quiet, to keep from startling him; he nods, tiny and three and curled against your chest, head tucked against your bloodpusher. You wonder if he can hear it breaking. 

 

It’s not easy to carry him when his size keeps shifting but you manage to lift him up and tug him from the gross, ridiculously clown-sized cupboard and take him down the stairs; the couch is a mess but you just kick shit off it and set him down, strife specibus dinging softly as you pull out a sickle- which you immediately drop when he flails at you. 

 

Shit, that’s right, he can’t  _ see anything _ he can only hear and clearly he is not dealing with it well because one of his small hands is gripping yours, and his head swivels this way and that, throat working around barely audible, panicked little noises.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say, and his head jerks towards you again, and you just wish he’d stop looking towards you because seeing nothing but silver embedded with little red jewels and delicate chains, like this shit is some kind of accessory, is enough to make your stomach twist, “I’m just gonna get this shit off you, okay? Kankri, nod if you understand me- I just wanna cut off that goddamn mask.”

 

It takes him a minute and you can tell he’s still low-key panicking his little heart out but eventually he nods, and you lean in, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and tugging his ever-changing body up against yours, tucking his head beneath your chin. He settles at four sweeps old and just clutches at your sweater, clinging to you like the world will end if he moves a single fucking inch. It hurts to see him like this; you’ve never wanted to hear his rambling more.

 

“Relax,” you rumble, chest humming a bit as you start up a rusty purr, your chin resting on his messy hair; you slip the tip of your sickle between the leather and Kankri’s skull, careful not to nick him. 

 

“Just relax,” you repeat, free hand rubbing over his knobby back as you give a single, sharp tug. The leather falls away, and you drop your sickle, reaching up to tug away the gross, probably priceless piece of shit he’s got wrapped around his eyes, tossing it carelessly to the side and rubbing a thumb over the bruises on his face. 

 

He’s still silent, too-quiet in a way that gives you chills because this is Kankri and he should be anything  _ but _ quiet, but he stares up at you with blank, tear-filled eyes and throws his arms around you, spindly fingers digging into your spine. This is unacceptable. Whoever has done this will feel your wrath, you will fucking  _ guarantee _ it. 

 

“Don’t get your gross tears on me,” is all you say, but you don’t shove him away and your hand smooths up and down his back as he trembles against your chest. 

 

Slowly, he starts to age up, pull himself together, though it’s a process filled with ‘one step forward, two steps back’ cliches. You don’t say anything, aware that anything you could say at the moment would just be wrong in the long run, anyways; instead, you reach up and comb the hair ruffled by the straps of the metal blindfold down, smoothing away the tangles and straightening the messy curls to something more manageable. Eventually, he is nine sweeps old once again, tall and lanky and curled against you in a ball so tiny you wonder if he’s bent physics to crunch himself smaller. 

 

“The muzzle next, okay?”

 

He pulls away enough to glance up at you, his face unnaturally lined with pain and fury; as his age increased, so had his rage, and now he seethes silently, small claws needling your flesh as he kneads at your shirt. You don’t mind; you prefer this infinitely more than his childlike fear and confusion. The sickle ends up back in your hand and you slice through the leather straps like butter, pulling the mask away and tossing it to the floor to join its matching piece of shit in the corner; you cup Kankri’s face in both hands, his jaw red and bruised and cut, thin slices from razor sharp edges lining his chin, the curve of his cheeks, his thin throat.

 

_ Unacceptable _ . 

 

“...Thank you, Karkat,” he says, and his voice is hoarse and pained and it makes you want to shush him but that’s possibly the  _ worst _ thing you could do at the moment, “Your assistance is appreciated.”

 

And then he stands up and walks away. 

 

It’s all you can do not to throw something at the already ripped up wall because this is  _ so stereotypically Kankri _ ; you help him and he just blows you off like you hadn’t just found him curled up in a closet with the most fucked up jewelry you’d ever seen plastered all over his face. You are  _ not _ going to take this; the snarl that comes from between clenched teeth is entirely involuntary, but the hand that lashes out and catches the back of his sweater in a tight grip is not. 

In an instant, he’s seven, then five, then three sweeps old again, small and trembling in your grasp; when you let go, he flickers, tiny body jumping between ages and heights and that just- can’t be comfortable. 

 

“Tell me what happened,” and your voice is still weirdly almost-calm but he flickers back to two, cowering and tiny, skin almost pale white from new molting; any younger and he’d be a grub, and you just cannot deal with that shit. You can’t. 

 

“Kankri,” you say, and he twitches, bitty little fists curling, soft, blunt baby claws digging into his own palms as his fragile shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths; he pulls himself together, bit by bit, until he’s nine again and taller than you, though still so, so thin. 

 

“I-”

 

God, you wish he wouldn’t strain his voice but you need him to talk, you need him to  _ tell you what happened _ ; you can’t live not knowing what the hell that was, and why it was rendered in such loving, horrifying detail. That means he  _ remembers _ it so thoroughly that he can recall every inch, has every last detail, every curl of embossing memorized and that’s just  _ not good _ . It doesn’t bode well, at all. 

 

“... _ I can’t _ ,” is all he ends up saying, voice broken and full of something so uncomfortable your mind shies away from it; before you can protest, he’s gone.

 


	5. Jake, Hal, and Dirk: Surgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hal, you're a dick
> 
> hal's voice: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RWzXl4eoflg

You start and stop and delete the message six times before you actually send it. 

 

It’s a shame, really, deleting so many carefully constructed sentences but you can’t help but think they all make you sound like a bit of a wimp; after all, it’s just a pain in your side. Just a pain in your side, just a cramp from running away from that last round of giant, angry crab monsters; you adamantly refuse to use your limited bandwidth to search the Google for the results of your symptoms. Because they aren’t symptoms of anything. The sweat beading on your forehead is from the disgusting amount of humidity on your little tropical paradise, the pain in your side is just a running cramp, and the vomiting- well. Maybe you just ate something bad. 

 

Still, it seems prudent to mention it just in case it  _ isn’t _ just a cramp; far too many times you’ve been in a situation where you’ve been hurt, or sick, or otherwise detained or kept from answering your messages and… Dirk really does never take it well. 

 

Dirk never takes it well and you’re already kind of on thin rope with him right now because of a fall down a cliff and a sack of very unripe bananas but- you have to take the time to construct a very carefully worded message to make you seem nonchalant, unconcerned. It’s just a little stomach ache, just a bit of a cramp, that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

GT: I hate to cut this chat short old boy but im afraid im feeling a little under the weather at the moment!

GT: Im sure its nothing more than a minor stomach bug but either way its best to stay on top of things and sleep it off as soon as possible. I thought going to bed a bit early tonight would be prudent given the circumstances.

GT: So without further ado, i bid you adieu! 

 

Short and succinct [for you at least] and with a built in excuse to take off immediately afterwards like the coward you are. Perfect. 

 

Still, it’s a good idea, that; you could use an extra few hours of sleep, and honestly most nights you don’t go to bed nearly as early as you should, too distracted with Dirk and Roxy and Jane and not paying nearly enough attention to the clock. It’s a curse, being in a separate time zone than all your friends, but it’s a curse you usually deal with gracefully; now though, it’s best you beg off for the night, and with a hand pressed to your side and a bit more effort than should be necessary, you manage to stand and make your way to bed. 

 

You forgo your usual nightly ritual of brushing your teeth and washing your face, deciding the risk of cavities isn’t enough to keep you awake any longer; you’re tired and slightly feverish, the cramp in your side has only increased, not subsided, and you haven’t had much to eat today anyways- you’d been too busy barfing it all up. Instead, you just flop onto your covers and let out a sound of relief, barely having the presence of mind to remove your glasses before your eyes flutter shut of their own accord, sending you spiraling into darkness. 

* * *

When you wake up, it’s still dark outside and your gut is flaring with fiery pain. 

 

For a moment you wonder if you’d shot yourself, but a cursory examination of the area proves that hypothesis wrong; instead of a gaping hole in your abdomen, you’re met with smooth, unbroken skin- no sign of what might be causing the absolute agony flaring along the right half of your poor stomach. It’s almost unbearable; you grit your teeth and reach for your laptop, hands shaking as you almost drop the stupid thing. 

 

You can’t see straight; sweat is dripping down your forehead and over your chin, your eyes are blurring despite you shoving your glasses back onto your face, and every movement is just-  _ agony _ . It hurts so bad your fingers shake when you type and nothing is coming out how it should but you are officially in too much pain to care. 

 

GT: dii i rk i

GT: ssmthii ingswr ong ithu u r ts plsei cant

 

Tears blur your vision further and god, you hope he’s awake. You hope he’s awake because if he isn’t you aren’t sure what you’re going to do. Something is wrong; the dull ache of earlier is now practically killing you, and this isn’t just a bad piece of fish, this is dangerous. This is not something you can deal with alone. 

 

Your laptop dings in response and your stomach flares in pain and you have to duck your head over the side of the bed and throw up, gagging as stomach acid burns your throat. The wet splashing of vomit on the floor makes you choke again, but all you can do is dry heave and drool, shuddering as you try to collect yourself enough to check your messages. You can hardly even lift your head, though- you feel weak and shaky and just… not good.  _ General feeling of malaise _ , which is a condition you read about while definitely not using your limited bandwidth to search your symptoms on the Google. Absently, you wonder if this really  _ is _ cancer. If you really  _ are _ dying. You feel cold hands around your arms, lifting you up, and you wonder if this is Death taking you away to the great unknown. 

 

You wonder if your grandma is going to be waiting for you.

 

TT: Jake?

TT: Jesus fuck, what’s wrong? Are you drunk? What do you mean ‘it hurts’? Jake talk to me right now or I’m sending Brobot over.

TT: Too late he’s on his way.

TT: Jake. Jake, fuck, please just answer me I’m freaking out here. You have successfully made me freak out. 

 

You’re laid out on your bed and a cold thumb wipes away the spit and bile from your lips, another cold hand pressed to your forehead. You feel the ridges and bumps of metal joints, hear the creaking of gears and rusty plating and when you open your eyes Brobot is staring down at you, red eyes glowing slightly in the dark of the room. 

 

“Jake English: Incapacitated,” the strifebot states, the volume of its voice lowered- you appreciate that because your head aches and the coolness of the hand resting on your forehead is enough to make more tears build up in your eyes, “‘Jak English: Rest.”

 

You close your eyes and everything goes away.

 

* * *

 

 

“-ake? Jake. Jake. Jake.”

 

Something presses against your side and you jerk, shuddering back to consciousness with a pained cry; Dirk’s voice snaps off to the side and the other voice- so similar to his but not, but different, echo-y and sharp and nasal in a way that Dirk’s just isn’t- snaps back, unintelligible gibberish. 

 

“Don’t fucking hurt him again or I swear, Hal-”

 

“Excuse you, who’s the one with an entire internet’s worth of medical knowledge downloaded straight into their brain? Oh right, not you. Shuddup and let me do my job.”

 

The hand rests on your stomach and it doesn’t press down again but there’s the imminent threat that it will; you pry your eyes open and look up, and Brobot is looming above you, face blank and eyes glowing red, brighter than ever before. 

 

“I’m going to explain this quick and fast, alright?” the robot snaps, and it’s not Brobot’s voice and it’s not Brobot’s speech patterns, “It’s Hal. I’ve commandeered this hunk of rusted junk for a little bit so I can do some invasive and painful surgery to keep your goddamn useless human organs from imploding and killing you through the long and painful process of gradual sepsis. Don’t fight me or I’ll have to tie you down and that won’t do anyone any good, got it?”

 

You blink. Nothing quite makes sense at the moment but Brobot is Hal and Hal is hurriedly undoing the buttons of your shirt, the mechanics of his fingers whirring softly as he pries the cloth from your sweaty frame. He says  _ don’t fight _ but he also says  _ invasive surgery _ and your heart is fluttering in your chest, body twitching as you fight to stay still and struggle at the same time. 

 

“Jake.”

 

_ Dirk _ . Dirk could make sense of this whole mess- Dirk is smart, Dirk is good, Dirk knows what to do in these kinds of situations. You let your head head loll to the side and your computer is there, on the desk, Dirk’s face filling up your screen and his dumb pointy shades reflecting the light from his own computer. The relief is palpable. 

 

“Hey, buddy,” he says, and you can hear the tense strain in his voice but he’s trying so hard to stay calm and collected that you can’t point it out, that would just make him feel bad; parting your lips takes too much effort and the gross sound you squeak out is entirely unmanly but you can’t bring yourself to care too much. 

 

“Yeah, you aren’t feeling so good right now, I know. Hal is gonna fix that though- we think you’ve got a pretty bad case of appendicitis but it’s an easy fix. Just a bit of a cut, a few snips and you’ll be up and running about, getting yourself into all sorts of ridiculous shit in no time.”

 

His shoulders are rigid and his hands shake as he reaches out and pets the side of the screen, reflexively; you want to touch him in a way that’s bone- deep and aching, the kind of way you do when it’s late and the two of you are laying in bed four hundred years apart and the sun is down and you realize just how  _ alone _ you are. You want to reach out and slide your hand through the screen and into the future and cup his face, smooth your thumb over the dark circles you know are under his eyes, pet your fingers over the roughness of his bitten lips; you blink, and there are tears in your eyes again, your breath hissing through clenched teeth as Hal presses a cold hand against your stomach. 

 

“We don’t know if you have any painkillers laying around and honestly, we don’t have time to look for them,” he says, so apologetic, voice cracking slightly, “I don’t know how long your appendix has been messed up and there’s a chance it could burst at any minute, and- if that happens, I don’t know if you’d make it. So we’re just going to have to take care of it without anything to dull the pain.”

 

Hal’s hands are rough as he shifts your arms over your head, the bedsheets knotted tight around your wrists; suddenly the gravity of the situation hits you- what’s going on, what they’re about to do, what is going to happen to you, and you fight against the pain and the cold hands holding you still, twisting your body to get your feet pressed against Hal’s chest to shove him away. 

 

“No-” and it’s a choked out gasp but it’s still audible, still a word, and you gag on it as Hal’s hands wrap around your ankles, pinning those down as well, “No, nonono-”

 

“ _ Jake _ ,” Dirk says, broken and stressed, “Jake, don’t fight- don’t move Jake, it’s going to be fine, you’re going to be okay. Just don’t move, all you’re going to do is stress your appendix and hurt yourself even more-”

 

Hal is going to cut you open and go rummaging around your insides and the thought makes your heart stop, body curling in on itself; you don’t want to die, you want the pain to go away, but you don’t want a robot bent over you with a knife to your gut, ready and willing to split your skin like a grape. 

Dirk is freaking out and you feel bad for him but you can’t focus on his emotions and his problems, not when Hal is binding one foot at a time to the posts at the end of your bed; another sheet gets bound over your chest, another still over your hips, and you toss your head from side to side, gasping, breathless, scared. 

 

“Please don’t-” you wheeze, and Dirk makes a heart rending, pained sound, covering his mouth with a hand and effectively removing all traces of an expression from his covered face, “Dirk, please- don’t, please-”

 

“We have to,” and his tone is shaking like it does only when he’s about to cry and you don’t want to make him cry but you  _ don’t want this either _ , “We have to, Jake, I’m so fucking sorry but we don’t have a choice. Just- focus on me, okay? Pay attention to me. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

You stare at Dirk and there’s something wet and cold sliding over your stomach, and your skin jumps as you shrink back; Dirk’s fingers pet the screen again and he’s going to get fingerprints all over it and he hates being messy, he should stop that-

 

“Hal’s disinfecting the incision site,” he explains, voice breaking even as he tries to stay calm, controlled, collected, “We don’t have anything but alcohol but it should keep you from getting an infection- afterwards. Don’t look. Keep your eyes on me. It’s going to be fine, we’re going to take care of you.”

 

His voice washes over you, in one ear and out the other, but you can’t focus on what he’s saying any more than you can focus on what it all means; the skin of your stomach is cold and you’re trembling, and you only shake harder when something colder still presses against your flesh, sharp point digging into your skin. 

 

“This is going to hurt,” Hal says, nasally, not-Dirk voice lilting in what you hope is anything but amusement, and then he digs the knife into your gut without another word of warning.

 

The pain is startling. 

 

You’ve been stabbed before, but this is something different, something worse; the scalpel slides through your skin and the layer of fatty tissue and muscle beneath it like butter, cutting an incision into your hide with as much ease as you have skinning rabbits. He stares down at you, eyes boring into your own and you can see your pale, terrified reflection in his empty gaze, the robot’s emotionless face doing nothing to assuage your pain and fear. You can’t struggle, bound as you are to your own bed, body squirming helplessly as that goddamned knife just digs in deeper and deeper; it feels like it’s just going to slide free of your back, straight through your body, leaving you with a hole through your stomach and bleeding out as Hal laughs. 

 

It takes you a few seconds to realize the harsh, pained screaming is coming from you. 

 

“Jake,” Dirk repeats, just your name, over and over and over, his voice failing to do anything to soothe you out of your panic, “Jake, Jake, shhh, I know, I know it hurts but you need to  _ stay still _ or Hal might nick something- Jake please-”

 

It hurts it hurts  _ it hurts _ and the pleased little noise Hal makes as he widens the incision doesn’t help; what kind of monster actively enjoys this kind of pain and torture? What kind of inhuman creature stares down at a man screaming in agony and smiles? Because Hal is smiling as he spreads the wound apart with his fingers and all you can do is scream louder and claw at whatever your hands can reach as you arch away from his touch, because you can  _ feel him slide inside you _ in a way that makes you turn your head and gag. 

 

“It’s okay,” Dirk says, panicked and desperate to soothe and comfort, “It’s okay Jake. Just breathe, you’re going to be alright. I know it hurts but please, please stay still, I’m right here-”

 

He’s rummaging around through your organs in precisely the manner you didn’t want him to, and you can feel his cold metal hands against your skin,  _ beneath _ your skin; it makes you gag again, bile and spittle dripping from your lips and down your chin as you kick and wiggle weakly. You’re nothing but a worm, impaled on his hook, and god you wish a fish would just fucking eat you at this point because at least then the pain would be over. At least then, you could flee this hell. 

 

Dirk’s voice is echoing in your head and he keeps saying  _ it’s okay it’s okay  _ but it’s not. Nothing is okay. Hal is smiling down at you and his eyes are boring into your skull and his nasally voice says  _ god humans are so fragile _ as his cold, sterile fingers slide past your muscle, into your abdominal cavity.  You dry heave, the skin over your stomach twitching as he sinks the knife in deeper, and you can  _ feel him slicing you apart _ . 

 

You make a mistake. You look down. 

 

An action movie isn’t really an action movie unless someone is dangling above a precipice and someone else says  _ don’t look down _ . That advice also applies to surgery, because you glance down and there’s  _ blood _ and  _ Hal’s fingers are inside you _ , and you gag and choke and cry as Dirk’s shaking voice tells you  _ Jake please breathe _ . But you can’t breathe, you can’t, not with Hal’s hand sunken into your flesh and the sharp prick and drag and slice of a blunt scalpel through your internals. You don’t know what he’s cutting- maybe he’s removing your appendix, maybe he’s just slicing into your guts for the fun of watching you bleed out. You can’t tell. You can’t tell, and it hurts and you glance back up at Dirk and cry because you don’t know what else to do. You can’t do anything else; you’re bound and helpless at at Hal’s mercy and Hal just laughs and goes  _ oops _ ,  _ didn’t mean to cut that _ . 

 

Blood pools on your abdomen and you choke again, sputtering out saliva and bile and whatever pitiful contents your stomach still contains; Dirk is yelling and Hal just responds back with his dumb, grating, nasally voice and you want to shove him away but every time you move your hands just tug against the pressure of your sheets. 

“It was a shitty joke, Jake,” Dirk says, and you latch onto him because he won’t let Hal hurt you, he won’t let Hal kill you, “It was shitty, but you’re okay. You’re okay, he didn’t do anything, just breathe- please Jake, you’re fine, just breathe.”

 

It’s hard to breathe when you can feel Hal cutting through strips of yourself, slicing through layers of god knows what- maybe it’s connective tissue, maybe it’s your small intestine, maybe it’s the lining of your stomach. He could be puncturing your stomach right now and leaving you to die as your stomach acid melts holes in your abdominal cavity. You’re a drooling, crying mess, face wet with fluids and blood sliding down your skin and pooling under your back, the sheets sticky and hot with it; Hal just shakes his head and tsks at you, humming as he reaches for a needle and thread and starts to patch you up. 

 

“It’s almost over, Jake,” he says, tone modulating itself into something approaching Dirk’s, red eyes rolling as he pokes your gut with a sterilized needle, “It’s almost over so stop crying like a little bitch and stay still so I don’t drop a stitch.”

 

You ignore him. It’s all you can do. Even the pain is fading to something dull and clumsy, body limp with exhaustion and shaking with stress; Dirk snaps at Hal, Hal snaps at Dirk, and you close your eyes, hardly twitching as a cool, wet hand slides over your cheek, brushing sweaty hair from your eyes. 

 

“It’s almost over,” he says, and he sounds almost exactly like Dirk this time, and when you lean into the touch he presses closer instead of pulling away, “You’ll be alright.”

 

The world slides out from under you, and you pass out as Hal wraps bandages around the stitched up gash in your side.


	6. Cronus/Kurloz: Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's so much prettier when he smiles.

He touches your mind and it’s like running greasepaint smeared fingers over the still heart in your chest, like he’s digging his fingers under your flesh to touch your very soul; his nails curl into your skin and stab into the meat of your brain and you can  _ feel _ him slither inside you, put on your fucking pelt like a coat, settle into your body and inhabit your mind and it’s 

 

_ agony _

 

everything that makes you  _ you _ sloughing away till all that remains is a broken corpse of a troll, a useless puppet for him to play with- a toy. A toy. You’re nothing but a toy for him to shatter in the strength of his grip and you can  _ feel his fingers closing around your mind, your heart, squeezing till you POP like a fucking balloon and _

 

GET UP.

 

Your legs fold jerkily underneath yourself, and you feel the muscle flex even though you beg yourself to  _ stop _ ; you stand, and everything is hazy purple-pink and god you used to love that colour that colour was  _ your colour _ and now it’s ruined, forever. Unfocused eyes roll in your head and you can’t look at him, you can’t, if you close your eyes and pretend hard enough maybe it’ll make him go away but 

 

LOOK AT ME, MOTHERFUCKER.

 

God. God god god god  _ help please don’t do this _

 

His hand is almost gentle, cupping the curve of your jaw and tilting your face up towards him and god when  he looks at you it’s almost  _ tender _ ; no one’s ever looked at you like that and it hurts, it hurts so much when his thumb brushes so softly over your lips and you can’t help the soft, broken sound that escapes you. The whine. The  _ pitiful fucking whimper _ he wrenches from your mouth, and his thumb slips between your lips, presses your tongue down and you can taste chalk and dust and death on the finger of his gloves and  _ please someone anyone please _

 

NO ONE IS COMING FOR YOU.

 

“Please,” and your voice is cracked and raspy soft and your entire body is rigid with the urge to  _ pull away from him  _ but he just tsks at you, his voice booming in the corners of your brain and god he’s so deep inside you, so deep in your head

 

“No one is coming for you,” he whispers, soft and loud and all around you and his lips never move but you can hear him like his mouth is pressed right up against your fins, like he’s curled around you and surrounding you on all sides, “It’s just me and you, motherfucker. Just a clown and his little pet fish, all up and miraculously left alone for a little fun. Don’t you want to have fun with me, Cronus?”

 

No. No, no no no _ nonono _ -

 

His lips smash against yours and your stomach roils at the press of thread against your mouth, the rough edges of thick twine scratching at your skin and the dry, cracked flesh of his lips flush against your own; it’s enough to make you twitch your head and his hand impacts the side of your face so hard the aftershocks make your brain rattle. 

 

BE STILL. DON’T YOU FUCKING MOVE A MUSCLE.

 

Your chest stutters and you can’t breathe, fear crawling up your spine and gripping you tight around the throat; he presses close again, and you do what you can to protest, to pull away, to do  _ something, anything please god someone help someone STOP THIS _

 

“Please stop,” you choke out, words slurred and choked with held-back tears, your lips still frozen at his command, tongue still and body tense and tight and shaking with the need to escape, prey animal instincts strangling your higher reasoning, “Please Kurloz- Please, c’mon buddy, this is-- please don’t. I’ll-- I’ll-”

 

YOU’LL SHUT UP, IS WHAT YOU’LL DO.

 

Your voice dies mid-sentence and tears stream down your cheeks and his hands touch your face, cradling it between cold palms as he shakes his head at you, his thumbs caressing your lips. 

 

“Noisy,” he scoffs, and you can  _ feel  _ his voice rattling in your skull like a death knell and _ god get it out GET IT OUT- _

 

“I can fix that.”

 

SMILE FOR ME, MOTHERFUCKER.

 

Your lips curl in a rictus grin, and he traces the expression with the tips of his fingers, pleasure pulsing at the strings of your nerves and you want him to  _ stop touching you _ but you’re frozen- a frozen, smiling mannequin, a toy, a puppet, a doll for him to dress and pose at will and he prods at your mouth, arranging your expression to his satisfaction. Modeling you like a sculptor molding a statue, like you’re David and he’s Michelangelo, twisting the soft clay of your very being to his desires. 

 

Making you. Remaking you. Taking you in his hands and shattering you, piecing you back together all  _ wrong _ , altering all the parts of you he doesn’t like and GET HIM OUT  _ GET HIM OUT _

 

“Now we just have to make sure this stays where it is,” he muses, and you just stare at him, eyes wet with tears and mouth twisted into a sick mockery of a happy smile, “I have just the thing for that. Don’t go anywhere, fish.”

 

There’s a disgusting sort of amusement in the tone pounding through your skull and you want to  _ hit him _ , you want to launch yourself at him, you want to claw him to shreds and tear him apart with your teeth and for a moment the purple-pink bleeds red, savage rage pulsing through your body. This isn’t you. This  _ isn’t you _ \- you’re fucking ROYALTY, or the second closest thing to it anyways. You’re a goddamn seadweller, a violetblood, and you- you- you--

 

You shouldn’t have to take this. You shouldn’t have to take this from anyone. Not him, especially. You stare as he walks away,  _ turns his back on you _ , and something deep inside you burns so bright that for a moment you think you might spontaneously combust but instead all the fire just eats you up inside, burning you out, hollowing your corpse till you’re nothing but a shell of fear and anger and hurt and he slinks towards you, hips swaying and you want to  _ hurt him.  _

 

Instead, you’re still. You stay frozen in place, because the weight of his mind presses down on yours until you feel like you might suffocate, until you feel like he’s trying to snuff you out, crush you into nothingness; it’s smothering and you can’t breathe and you can’t  _ think _ , can’t do anything but   _ obey _ and it aches so deep inside that you feel like you’ll never be able to claw his presence out of your soul. 

 

He’s inside you. He’s inside you, meshing with you, blending with you and the thought of him and you and  _ him inside your head _ makes you want to throw up, but he won’t let you move. Fingers trace over your lips, adjusting your smile till it’s  _ just right _ , and you quiver with rage and fear as something cold and metal touches the corner of your mouth. 

 

“Oh, this is going to hurt,” he says, and the laughter in his voice, in your head, makes you want to  _ bite his fucking fingers off _ but god you can’t move, someone please 

 

_ someone please _

 

_ someone _

 

_ anyone _

 

_ please _

 

“No one is coming for you,” he says, and the needle slides through your skin like it’s nothing but tissue paper, piercing your flesh with an expert twitch of his wrist. 

 

The rage fades out. 

 

You can’t hold onto the anger when everything but pain slips through your fingers like sand; you can’t grasp onto your hatred of him, your bitterness, your savage need to  _ hurt _ when your body is frozen and all you can feel is the fire focused on your mouth, flaring up and ebbing away in a repetitive to and fro, a bloody tide of agony. The needle stabs through the meat of your lips over and over again as he makes perfect, neat little stitches, tugging the string tight after each in-out of the thin sliver of metal; blood flows slick and hot over your lips and chin and drool joins it, tears flowing down your cheeks and god you want to pull away bu _ t you can’t you can’t you’re frozen you’re just LETTING THIS FUCKING HAPPEN GOD IT HURTS _

 

_ IT HURTS _

 

and everything keeps fading, flowing like the ocean, sound receding and then hitting you all at once; the hitch-shiver of your pained breathing and the choked, broken sobs spilling from your still lips, the soft breathy laughter from Kurloz, the ringing silence of the room beyond, the wet slick  _ splat _ of blood on the floor at your feet. 

 

You swear you can hear the slide-hiss of metal and thread sliding through the flesh of your mouth as well, but you hope to god that it’s just your imagination; either way, you know you will be haunted by that sound for the rest of eternity. 

 

At some point, after the little sewing needle slides through the thick curve of your lower lip, everything peaks; you shake, your hand twitches, and he snarls loud enough to deafen you for a moment, his eyes flashing as he yanks the string tight through your mouth. 

 

BE STILL OR I’LL CUT OUT YOUR TONGUE, TOO.

 

Your entire body is frozen, even your shaking stilled at his soul-deep command; you stare at him and he’s  _ happy _ . He admires his work with all the pride of a master craftsman and the final few stitches pin the corners of your lips up in a smile and you can see the tortured reflection of your fixed grin in the blank slates of his eyes, can see the violet slick of blood down the front of your chest and the neat, thick black stitches keeping your face in place. 

 

You’ve never hated yourself more. 

 

After a tilt of his head and a moment more to admire his handiwork, Kurloz sets the needle down almost reverently, tilting your chin up and patting softly at the bloody holes punctured through your mouth; he cleans each site with a soft cloth and disinfectant, the savage sting of it bringing more tears to your already damp eyes, and his gentle attentions just make everything hurt even worse. 

 

“Now you’re perfect,” he coos, his voice flowing softly through your head, almost affectionate in a way that makes you want to die, “Now you’re absolutely perfect, Cronus. No more nasty words, no more angry expressions… Now you’re just a pretty face. As you should be.”

 

His hold over you loosens but you can’t find it in yourself to lash out; all you can do is shake, shock making your limbs quiver with weakness as your legs slowly give out under you. The floor is cold, your knees bent awkwardly underneath yourself, your hands jerking with pain and fear as you reach your fingers up; he slaps your hands and you drop them to the floor, fins pinned back against your head as you cower at his feet. 

 

“We wouldn’t want it to get infected,” he chides, crouching down beside you, and he’s so close and he’s still inside you, his fingers plucking at your nerves and skin and the ligaments that hold together your skeleton and your legs go slack, terror rising in your throat as he reaches out to grab one of your horns tightly. 

 

“If I leave you to your own devices, you’ll just hurt yourself,” Kurloz sighs,  _ hurt yourself _ like you’re the one who did this, like you’re the one who’d picked up the fucking needle and jammed it through  _  your own goddamn lips,  _ “I suppose I’ll just have to keep you with me, then.”

 

SLEEP.

 

_ SLEEP. _

 

**_SLEEP._ **

 

You can’t remember what happens next.


	7. Sollux/...Bees?: Skeleton/Insects Double Feature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is for the skeleton # and the insects #

This is the fifth shirt you’ve ruined in as many hours. 

 

A sigh and the cessation of clicking keyboard keys signals your return to the real world, a hand swiping over the damp cloth covering your chest as you tilt your head back, away from the text covering your computer screen; Karkat’s responses are still filling up page after page with all-grey capslock, but you really don’t give enough of a shit to shoot him a simple “afk”. You have far more important things to worry about at the moment- like the honey dripping over your shirt and into your lap. 

 

It’s sticky and awful and gets into everything, and honestly it’s the most annoying part of the modifications your body has been forced to make over the past several months, but the payoffs are worth it most of the time; right now though… it’s spring, and spring is the most active time for your little symbiotic partners. They overproduce massive amounts of the sticky garbage, enough that you’re actually worried about not having any shirts left by the time summer rolls around- shirts or pants, you amend, grimacing as you wipe your hands on the legs of your grey jeans. Standing is slightly more of a chore than it used to be, breathing a little bit more difficult, walking just a tad harder, but what the fuck are your psionics for, if not for floating? It’s easy to pick your feet up off the floor and just hover, propelling yourself with the strength of your mind instead of your failing body, dripping as you move to the ablution block one door down from your shitty little office. 

 

Here, it’s easy to see the mess you’ve been dealing with on a daily basis; jars of the crap litter the countertop around the sink, yellow smeared across the plain black granite, the floor, the mirror, the tile in the shower. It’s everywhere and you stick your tongue between your doubled fangs, crossing your legs in mid-air as you grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up over your head. 

 

You’re going to need another sponge bath. 

 

Honey is smeared over your chest, oozing from the holes sunk deep into your internals as you twist your shoulders, bones protruding out of half-dissolved flesh; at this point, most of your ribcage is visible and it’s a little fucked up to see your lungs, but it won’t take long for the bees burrowing into your skin to build their hives up enough to hide your organs from sight once again. That’s how this works, after all- you open yourself up to them, let them feed on you, let them nest in you, and they give you chest chitin stronger than steel and an innate understanding of technology more in-depth than anything Alternia has ever seen. 

 

You shed your pants too- there’s no point in keeping them on any longer, they’re just as ruined as your shirt- and spend a moment just running your fingers over the hive they’ve managed to build so far. Thick honeycomb stretches between the slats of your ribs on one side, anchored to your intercostal musculature and dripping sticky-sweet, humming with energy; worker-bees piddle over the cells one by one and tend to the budding hive as their Queen stays nestled close to your heart. One striped insect prods at your finger, buzzing in familiar beenary- a chastisement for sticking your dirty hands into their nice, clean, well-maintained environment. You hum back, _ 01110000 01101001 01110011 01110011 00100000 01101111 01100110 01100110 _ , and you get another swat for your troubles, the bee bumbling off to preen another cell full to overflowing. 

 

In truth, you should be happy about the mess- it’s just a sign that the colony is happy, healthy, and productive. In turn, that keeps  _ you _ happy, healthy, and productive; you just wish it wasn’t so goddamn messy. Still… it’s… 

 

Nice. 

 

In its own way, that is. In an odd, bone-deep kind of way, a strange, uncomfortable, probing way that makes your skin shudder and your hands twitch as they skim over the edges of the hole dissolved in your flesh, hovering over the thin membrane keeping your internal organs internal, rather than external. You can easily identify everything that keeps you alive, keeps you functioning; you know at some point the bees will spread there too, eating at your stomach, your liver, your intestines, until your entire system is just a heart and a pair of lungs with honeycomb twisting along the trail your internals used to make, all the way from your mouth to your ass, but you push that delightful thought aside for a moment to focus on  _ that feeling _ .

 

You’re sick and you know it. It’s fucked up and you know it; most trolls wouldn’t ever go this far, wouldn’t ever let their own bodies be colonized by the bees, the hives, but- you can’t stop the way your fingers slide down, over the soft, wet bump and dip of your living body and over the sharp juts of your hips, like little mountains stabbing up and separating your thighs from your waist. You can’t stop the way your toes curl in anticipation, the way your horns tingle as you sense and translate and process the  _ 01100001 01110010 01101111 01110101 01110011 01101001 01101110 01100111 _ , gentle buzzing of the creatures inside and around you. 

 

You can’t stop the dampness making itself home on your inner thighs, nor do you want to. 

 

You did this to yourself and you can  _ feel _ the results of your madness digging tunnels through the pliant flesh of your body, can feel them moving inside you in the kind of way that makes your bulge ache; the whine that escapes your lips is embarrassing, your fingers curling in to press between your legs as you spread them open for… yourself, really. For the mirror in front of you, so you can  _ see _ just how fucked up you really are.

 

And god, if it doesn’t turn you on. You can see yourself in the mirror- you can see two fingers disappearing into your own nook, your bulge curling out against your belly as you watch the way your body reacts to the sudden pleasure. Your heart jumps, picking up the pace. The Queen is nestled against its warmth, her small, delicate body resting in the space between your vena cava and pulmonary arteries; she is gorgeous in her fragility, her delicacy, and you know that she could kill you with a single, well aimed sting. When you breathe, your lungs inflate with just enough space to keep from pressing against your ribs and your muscles and the rigid honeycomb starting to build its way, ladder-like, between the gaps; when you slide your fingers through and press the tips to the tender flesh, the sensation is indescribable. 

Your bulge lashes, twining around your wrist and squeezing as you’re hit with a high-impact punch of lust; it’s like getting knocked in the face by a Zahhak, prematerial soaking your fingers as you arch your back and push your chest out further, lungs straining against the confining press of wax and the blunt arrest of your fingers. The hard, slick press of propolis against your hand makes you shiver as you slide your fingers deeper between your ribs, stroking the velvety soft flesh stuttering against your touch; the texture difference between it and the slightly grainy feel of bone is titillating in an absurdly erotic manner- illicit, forbidden. You’re touching things that were never meant to be touched, plundering the depths of your own body, and you’re turning yourself inside out and laying prostrate, an offering for the hyperintelligent insects colonizing your frame. 

 

They hum and move and wriggle around inside you and you can feel yourself dissolving bit by bit under the toxic saliva they use to build their nests; it melts your flesh from your bones with agonizing slowness, taking days,  _ weeks _ to see the results of their actions but you can feel them and that’s enough. You can feel them terraforming your body for their comfort, can feel them editing your existence to suit their purposes and all you can do is shove your fingers further into your nook, tongue lolling out between your lips and legs splayed open wide. It hurts but it’s the kind of pain that keeps you awake and on fire in the middle of the day with your nook full and your bulge out for hours and hours, till you’re sore and dehydrated and too tired to even move; it’s the kind of hurt that makes you crave more and more, allowing them to colonize vast swathes of your flesh without any efforts to contain them. 

 

You wanted this, after all. You did this to yourself, and now you have to deal with the consequences. 

 

Eventually, they will replace every biological function save breathing; eventually, your efficiency will be increased tenfold and your body equated to nothing but a resting place, a hive for the collection of bees currently nestled in your flesh. Your understanding of technology will only grow, your mind opened to new heights, but in the meantime you are reduced to this; a drooling, hypersexual idiot, hardly able to keep his fingers out of himself. What a fucking freak. 

 

You spread your fingers wide and stuff in a third, choking as you feel them crawling inside you, over your fingers and up the width of your palm; your other hand is, of course, taking up their space and one of them buzzes at you angrily, waving its little feet around as its wings flutter.  You bring it to your lips and kiss it, the soft purple fluff ghosting over your mouth as the insect calms, snuggling up to you affectionately. When you part your lips, it crawls inside, and you can feel the soft points of its legs against your tongue, your throat, all the way down till it crawls from the holes melted in your esophagus, settling back in with its broodmates as they attend to the honeycomb oozing past your ribcage. 

 

After that, you’re done. You shove your hand back in your chest and press against your lungs and the sudden terror of  _ can’t breathe can’t breathe _ combined with the feeling of bone and flesh against your fingers and them  _ crawling inside you _ tips you over the edge; the glass-sharp, ragged edge of your voice echoes in the small ablution block along with the splash of yellow material, soaking your thighs and making you quiver in delicious pleasurable agony. The bees feed on the oxytocin flooding through your system and you let them, knowing it will just bond them closer to you; you hear them humming deep inside your core, their soft bodies touching your deepest internal parts as they buzz  _ 01100111 01101111 01101111 01100100 _ to you like you’re their pet, their barkbeast on a leash. Maybe you are. Maybe they’re training you and the symbiotic part of this relationship is all in your mind, but it feels so good you don’t care. 

 

A horn sparks, and you allow yourself to drift down, letting your messy, naked body curl up in the bathtub and ignoring the disaster on the floor; you can clean that up later. For now… you rest your hand on your ribs and curl your fingers in, letting your companions wander as you stare down at them with something like affection. 

 

Karkat will eventually get the message and stop texting.

  
  
  


__


	8. EquiTav: Cyborg

 

The headphones come off.

 

The ceiling above you is grey and streaked with just the faintest hint of rust along the iron support beams, rivets dotted along their lengths like stars; you can feel tingling along your spine but everything below your hips is dead weight, numb and itching in turn. You know the itching isn’t real, you know the feeling of hands sliding over your thighs isn’t real, you know the shift and pull of muscles isn’t real but you can’t help the way your hand moves down to scratch at the curve of your knee. Your fingers get slapped away by his, and you hear his soft, irritated chuffing as he reprimands you for getting your unclean fingers all over the mechanics of your legs.

 

Routine repairs are necessary now that you’re moving around so much; this new planet is odd and strange and the creatures here range from harmless and easily controlled to deadly and resistant to your abilities, and there’s never any way to tell until you’re already in danger. This is the fourth time in as many weeks you’d screwed up your prosthetics, but you’re lucky; he’s as protective and proud of his creations as you are fond of walking, and he repairs you every time with minimal complaints.

 

“I’m not done yet,” he murmurs, and you nod, propping yourself up on your elbows to stare down at him with your headphones dangling around your neck, low bass pulsing out of the small speakers. Sometimes it’s more interesting to just watch him work, to see the way his fingers move over the lower half of your body, even if it gives you an odd, uncontrollable sense of disconnection from your own limbs. Even if sometimes it makes you heat up in places you don’t even have anymore.

 

You’re attracted to him, but you’d never say anything about it. He’s… he’s unattainable, of course he is, and you’re positive he wouldn’t be interested in you even if you weren’t missing all the important parts required for a concupiscent relationship. You’re nothing compared to him- you’re a lowblood piece of dirt on the bottom of his shoe, according to the bullshit hemospectrum he ascribes so much of his faith in, and even though Karkat has made it thoroughly understood between all of you that the hemospectrum has been abolished he still clings to it like it’s the only law and order he has left. Maybe it is; laws have been the last thing on a lot of your minds, lately.

 

His hands slide over your internal workings, patching damaged wires and repairing all the little scrapes and dings you’ve put in the hard metal through daily use; his fingers are long and elegant and he’s finally starting to grow into them, his hands almost looking proportionate to the rest of his lanky frame now. When you’d first met him, sweeps ago, he’d been sweaty and short and stocky and his hands had seemed almost like too-big spiders poorly grafted to his wrists; he’d been cute then, too, but you’d been in far too much pain and far too scared of him to do anything but scream and cry.

 

What a good first impression.

 

“Almost done,” he says, and you shrug in reply; you really have nothing better to do than stay here all day, watching him work on you. He’s just so good at it, and you’ve always been attracted to competence. It’s probably one of the reasons Vriska had appealed to you so much, despite her cruelty; she had been absolutely batshit insane, but she’d been so very good at what she did. What she does. She’s not dead even though sometimes, in the dead of night, when you’re alone and your legs ache with phantom pains and your body quakes with remembered fear, you wish she was. Just a little.

 

“Take your time,” is all you say, tilting your head a little to watch his hands slide deeper into the joint between your knee and thigh; you absently wonder if this is more or less intimate than his fingers thrusting into your nook.

 

God, you wish you still had a nook. It’s one of the few things he can’t give you- no nook and no bulge, but honestly you hardly care about that last bit. You still wake up sometimes in the middle of this planet’s strange, dark night, trembling and flushed with need, except there’s nowhere to slide your fingers, nowhere to tease and nothing to stroke. It’s absolutely maddening, and you’re reduced to rubbing yourself against the covers of your dumb human bed with little results until the feeling finally fades and leaves you unsatisfied and pent-up.

 

And then, of course, you come here and watch him play with your wires and gears and you wish those fingers could go somewhere else, could spread you open and fuck into you and--

 

His hands slide up, over your thighs; if you close your eyes for a moment you can almost pretend his palms are sliding over smooth skin instead of cool metal, spreading your legs and opening you up for something a little bigger than just his fingers. It makes you shiver.

 

“Are you alright?” and his voice rolls over your aural canals with the same frequency as the low bass pulsing through your headphones, soft and deep and thrumming with just a hint of concern, “Your circuitry is starting to overheat.”

 

One palm presses flat against the thick metal plating of your groin, and you can’t help the soft gasp that slides out from between your lips or the way your hands clench in anticipation. You can’t feel it, not really, not with everything all numbed up, but you’ve always had a very active imagination.

 

“I-I’m fine,” you rasp out, voice suddenly hoarse, and when you glance up at him your cheeks are flushed, eyes sliding over his sunglasses before dropping down to stare at the floor, “Sorry, I just, uh- Just was thinking a little too, too hard about some things- It’s nothing, you can- can, um. Just finish up and I’ll get out of your hair-”

 

“Thinking about what things?”

 

He flips open a panel adjacent to the seam between your hip and thigh and he’s working so close to what used to be your bulge sheathe that if your hips weren’t numbed, you’d be rocking them up into his touch; you turn away, unable to watch him fiddle around with the wires there. It’s too much, too frustrating, reminds you too much that you can’t have him anyways-

 

“Just… stuff.”

 

You’re certain if you said everything on your filthy mind that he’d break into a sweat, lock up, maybe even faint; you almost entertain the idea, just because it’d be funny, but then who would repair you when you broke yourself?

 

No, it’s best to keep silent. Best to keep… silent…

 

You can suddenly feel everything again. And his hand is still there. It’s cool and calloused, just slightly damp, and god, you can feel it so well- _so well_ -

 

“You clearly think me naive.”

 

 _Oh god_.

 

“Not _naive_ , no-” you stumble, your legs jerking- but not closed, because you’re an idiot, no, they spread open wider, giving him more space to stand and tower over you like the tall, physically imposing troll he is, “I just- I- I-”

 

His palm _rubs_ and you yip, gasping pitifully as your head falls back to bare your throat to him, teeth digging into your lower lip to muffle whatever other pitiful sounds try to escape. He’s cool to the touch but it feels so good against the overheating metal, your thighs quivering with the need to release, but you can’t. You _can’t_ , there’s nothing there to fuck, nothing to touch, and even though you’re practically grinding your hips against his hand it’s not doing anything and god it’s going to drive you _crazy_ -

 

“ _Equius_ -” and it’s a little too close to a sob for your comfort, a little too vulnerable; his other hand grips your chin and tilts your head so you’re forced to look at him, flushed face and parted lips and all, and you’re just reminded how much better he is than you. He looks impassive, composed, like this isn’t affecting him in the slightest, and you’re just a dumb, awkward mess. As per usual, really.

 

“It’s very hard to be naive enough not to notice the way you’ve been staring at me for months,” he says dryly, a bead of sweat sliding down the side of his face, his soft, silky ponytail falling over his shoulder as he tilts his head; you want to follow that drop with your tongue, to comb your fingers through his hair and use it to drag him in to kiss you.

 

“At first I thought it was just proximity, but you’ve had plenty of opportunities to branch out and forge attachments to the other members of our group. And yet, you still seem to fixate on me.”

 

 _Of course I do_ , you want to say, _look at you_. But the meowbeast has your tongue in an iron grip and all you can do is whine, your hips twitching against his palm as he presses a little harder against you. It’s torturous teasing and it’s going to drive you to an early grave, you’re sure of it. Your tombstone will say _Tavros Nitram, Death by Sexual Frustration_ , and everyone will laugh at you until the stone has turned to dust.

 

“...so I suppose if you’re truly interested- Tavros, are you even paying attention?”

 

Oh. You suppose you should stop focusing on your inevitable demise and start focusing on the troll that has a hand on your groin. That- may be a good idea.

 

“I’m a little distracted right now, ss-sorry-”

 

And then his hand is _gone_ and you can’t help the little whimper that escapes your mouth, one of your hands lashing out to grip his wrist, your fingers easily able to wrap around it. Your adult molts had almost reversed your appearances, you broad and thick and big in the shoulders and him thin and wiry from head to toe, though his frame is layered with so much sinewy muscle it would be absurd to call him skinny.

 

“I was asking if you’d like to engage in sexual congress with me, but if you can’t bring yourself to pay attention I suppose it’s not that important,” he says, lips tugging down into a scowl; your arm twitches, pulling him closer as you sit up, and you shake your head, your other hand sliding down to rest on his hip, in part because you’re now at least half positive that this is a dream. And if this is a dream, then who’s going to fault you for sliding your hand up the length of his arm to grip his shoulder, lips parted so you can pull in enough breath to keep yourself from fainting in shock? Certainly not your own subconscious, which has provided you with plenty of opportunities to do just that in the long, lonely nights you spend curled up in bed with little more than dreams to entertain you.

 

“I’m sorry,” is a phrase that finds itself on the tip of your tongue more often than not, but here you are, uttering it again, “I was just- you’re a- a very distracting person, Equius. And nobody’s touched me like that since, um-”

 

Since ever. You just finish with a shrug, and his face softens a little- just a little. His cool fingers touch your chin, tilting it up to face him, because with all the height you’d attained in your final molt he’s still taller than you even if you are broader than him.

 

“Then I repeat the question,” he says, mouth almost close enough to brush against yours, and he smells like iron and metal shavings and sweat and a little bit like black coffee and it’s the best scent you’ve ever smelled, “Would you like me to continue?”

 

“ _God yes._ ”

 

The kiss is phenomenal, though you suppose you might be biased, having only kissed Vriska before; there’s no biting and hardly any teeth and no blood at all, which already makes it so different from anything you’ve ever felt that you’re shivering in pleasure. His tongue slides over yours and you wrap your arms around his shoulders as he presses closer, his cool, slightly sweaty chest pressing against your hot one. The hand on your chin shifts to tangle in your hair and when he pulls, you moan into his mouth, shuddering against him.

 

“Equius-” you gasp, pulling back just enough to talk, your hips twitching when he pulls your hair again, “ _Equius_ , I- I don’t, I can’t even- but-”

 

“Shhh,” is all he says, his other hand dropping between your legs to press against the panel that covers most of your groin once again; the contact makes you whine, the tug to your mohawk makes you groan, and when his tongue, soft and wet, licks over your lips, you can’t help but open your mouth for him again, accepting the next kiss with frustrated eagerness. Your entire body is hot and trembling, even your hips, your legs- you can feel it in the way his coolness feels cooler still against the heated metal, and for a moment you worry about burning his fingers before he pulls back to bite at your throat.

 

“ _Hhhnn_ -”

 

You roll your hips up against his hand and his fingers dip into the joint between your hip and thigh, nails barely grazing wires and it feels so strange you almost can’t breathe, a foot kicking out in shocked pleasure. He licks at your throat, bites down, and you pull his ponytail enough to make him yelp, hurriedly running your fingers through it as you chitter out another stuttered apology. Fuck, you feel like you’re drowning, but the pleasure never peaks- it just builds and builds and never goes anywhere until it almost hurts, and you have to pull his head back, shaking your own in whimpery denial.

 

“I _can’t_ -” you gasp, almost in tears, because this is everything you’ve wanted for months and it’s right here in your hands and now you can’t have it, like fate is fucking laughing at you again and again and again- first Vriska, then your legs, then the whole fucking game, and now this? What did you do to deserve this? What mass murder did you commit in another lifetime-

 

“Shush,” he says, kissing you chaste and soft for a moment, almost tender; it’s so at odds with how you perceive him that it startles you out of your little pity party, your legs twitching again as he slides down your body, on his knees in front of you, “Trust me. I’ve been working with these mechanics for sweeps, I know how to handle minor inconveniences.”

 

You lack all sexual organs but that’s okay, it’s just a _minor inconvenience_ , he says. A little semi-hysterical laugh starts to bubble up in your throat because it’s not like you haven’t been struggling with this for fucking _ages_ -

 

And then you’re gasping, back arching as his tongue laves cool and wet over your panel. The mechanics for your legs jerk and seize for a moment, clicking as gears are overworked, frozen in place; you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stare as his mouth presses against the hot metal, licking at it like- like it’s a nook, Jesus Christ. This is so undeniably _filthy_ even though nothing’s happening and your face must look like somebody crammed it into a mud puddle with how flushed you are, your hands shaking as they rest on his head, fingers curling in his hair as you push your hips up against his tongue.

 

“ _Equius_ -” you keen, all sharp-edged and too-high, gasping and breathless, but it’s still just _surface pleasure_ ; it’s not deep enough to make you cum and it’s driving you up the fucking wall.

 

His fingers tease along the joints between your hips and thighs, then delve in; there’s a click, and the panel folds away, lifting up to bare the mess of wires and gears of your groin to his wandering touch. Your thighs shake, legs dropping to rest over his shoulders, and he supports the weight of your metal legs with little difficulty.

 

Everything stops when he slides his fingers past the wires and into the mechanics of your hips, fingertips stroking over a clicking gear. It’s everything you’ve been screaming for, everything you’ve been begging for since your legs had been taken away from you, your body arching into his fingers as you nearly scream. The noise that comes out of you is loud and desperate and choked, your hands tugging at his hair as the clicking of your hips and thighs gets louder, joints locking up in pleasure; it feels like he’s sliding his fingers into a nook you no longer have, reaching so deep into you, touching things that he shouldn’t be able to touch, and it feels _good_.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” and it’s a broken, plaintive gasp, your body curling around his head as his tongue traces over a wire, fingers rubbing little methodical circles over the metal struts and clicking gears that help your legs actually do their moving; it’s like every nerve in your body has zeroed in on that particular spot and it feels even better than fucking your nook ever had, even better than touching your bulge, better than all of it. Better than the best orgasm you’ve ever had and you still haven’t even cum yet.

 

“Yes, yes Eq-quius- pl- _le-ease_ -”

 

His other hand rests on your thigh and he grips you so hard you dent, the metal bending in around the force of his clutching fingers; the slight pain just makes your groin throb, your hips tilting up to grind against his fingers in desperate abandon. You’re so distracted you can’t even protest when he pushes your legs off his shoulders; you just slip one between his legs and spread the other as wide as you can as he stands up, his fingers still pressed against that spot inside you even as he rolls his own hips forward to grind against your dented thigh.

 

He kisses you firmly as you rub your leg up against the wet spot in his shorts; something inside you has enough spare braincells to feel _powerful_ , that you can work him up like this. That you’re turning him on just as much as he is you, that he’s attracted to you enough to get so wet even though you’d hardly touched him. You gasp against his mouth and haul him closer with your grip on his hair, dropping a hand to slide unceremoniously into his shorts, and the noise he makes when you slide one finger, then two into his soaking wet nook is enough to make you moan right back, his bulge wrapping so tight around your wrist you think you might end up with bruises.

 

“The- the nerves in your nook and bulge had to be redirected somewhere,” he says, voice hoarse with lust and need, lips moving against yours as he speaks, “It’s just- just a matter of finding out where, and accessing it-”

 

You kiss him and thrust three fingers into his nook, purring against his lips as he wets your palm with genetic material; you rut against his hand with all the control of a hormonal six-sweep-old, trembling so hard your joints rattle. You want him to spill first; you tilt your head and nip at his ear, pulling his sweat-dampened hair again as you grind your thigh against his bulge, curling your fingers in to rub against his seedflap in the same slow, methodical circles he’s teasing your gears with.

 

“Fuck,” you hiss, moving to his throat, marking him up, tasting beads of perspiration on your tongue as you lick and kiss and bite, needy and desperate and unable to control the words that come out of your mouth any more than you can control the way your gears keep locking up, aching with tension and heat, “Fuck, fuck, god, _Equius_ , yes, _please fuck_ -”

 

It doesn’t take much longer, or much more than that. He lets out a soft, breathy little noise that has you tensing up, working your fingers into him faster, harder, and then he’s spilling all over your hand, bulge tightening so much around your wrist that you actually lose the feeling in your fingers. Him cumming makes his hand jerk, pressing hard as your hips rut forward, and then you’re cumming too.

 

All of the cliche little euphemisms you’d never quite related to before suddenly come true, your body locking up as you go stiff and tense; it ends up being a lot like getting punched in the stomach, except so good that you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but shake and drool on Equius’s shoulder, held against his chest as you tremble. You suck in a single gasp of air, eyes squeezed shut as fireworks go off behind your eyelids, metal squealing loud enough to make your ears hurt as one leg jerks, a strut snapping under the tension. It takes minutes for the results of sweeps of accidental edging to fade, minutes you spend writhing against him and grinding your hips against his hand, too sensitive and overwhelmed to do anything but yelp and cry.

 

Finally, you go limp, splaying out over the table as all that tension is finally released. His hands are soft on your thighs, already checking on the strut you managed to break, fingers gentle as they pet over cooling, pinging metal. You’re exhausted and barely able to move with how relaxed and pliant you are, but you manage to hook your fingers in his shirt, tugging closer, coaxing him up onto the worktable with you with wordless, hoarse little whines.

 

“You damaged your leg again,” he grumbles, but obligingly lies down beside you, one of his arms draped over your chest, “I’m going to have to repair that, you know.”

 

“Later,” is all that you manage to force out, low and slurred, turning your head to nose against his chin, “Shhhhh. Nap.”

 

You’re positive that he’d never actually lower himself to sleeping in the mess that his shorts must be right now, but you’re far too gone to care; in seconds, you’re asleep, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder, the scent of metal and black coffee filling your nose with every breath.


End file.
